The Moscow Sleepers

46

‘We should be hearing from them soon.’ Pearson drummed two fingers on the tabletop and frowned. ‘I’m surprised it’s taking that long. There’s not a lot of traffic off this part of the coast. I know they’re short of boats and crew but I would have expected a quicker response than this. We flagged it up as urgent.’

He and Liz were in a spare office back at the Southwold station. Liz had a view of the street. The window was covered with burglar-proof mesh that made a tractor, crawling along the road, oscillate surreally as Liz gazed out.

They had left two armed officers at Bartholomew Manor on the off chance that Sarnat, Cicero or Gottingen might return, though Liz thought that given what they’d heard from Geoff Gumm it was unlikely. While Pearson spoke to his HQ and ordered them to contact Border Force, Liz had accompanied Aziz to the farm annexe. She announced to the students that he was in charge and they were all to remain where they were for the day. Their initial puzzlement had turned to glee at the prospect of a lesson-free day. Leaving two policemen on guard she was driven over to join the Chief Constable in Southwold.

Gumm had been extremely precise in his description of the boat that had picked up the escaping trio and clear about the direction it had taken as it left the coast. At first it seemed simple enough, and at nine thirty Border Force had contacted Suffolk Police HQ to report that their own craft had set off an hour before from Great Yarmouth. On its way south, it communicated with a large tanker, which reported seeing a fishing boat matching the description Gumm had given – and also supplied its name. Fortunes High had been spotted about five miles offshore, moving north towards Lowestoft. The tanker estimated it was travelling at no more than 10 knots.

‘That’s slow, isn’t it?’ asked Liz when Pearson told her this.

‘Yes, that’s very slow, especially for a getaway. You’d expect something a lot faster. Unless something’s wrong with the boat, or they are trying to rendezvous with another vessel.’

By eleven o’clock he was looking both worried and frustrated. They both knew there was nothing they could do but wait. Liz had contacted Peggy in Thames House to set in hand enquiries about the ownership, nationality, etc. of the Fortunes High. She had also received some information in answer to enquiries she had made previously about the ownership of Bartholomew Manor. ‘It’s not clear who actually owns the place. There’s a shell company, then another, then another. For a while I thought it might be the Chinese behind it. But it’s pretty obvious now, given everything that’s happened in Germany and what we’ve learned from Moscow, that it’s been the Russians all along – though I don’t suppose they’ll be coming forward to claim it. The whole thing will keep the lawyers busy for months to come.’

Pearson smiled and said, ‘The property issues can wait. What I don’t know is what will happen to the students there.’

‘Who knows? I don’t think there’s much chance that the Freitang will want them back. If it still even exists, given that the Head is dead and turned out to be a Russian agent. The whole thing is a huge scandal in Germany and we’re left with all these kids. I don’t suppose they’ll get much choice in the matter, poor things. It’s tragic when you think what they’ve already been through to get to Europe in the first place and now they’re stuck in limbo. It all depends what status they had in Germany, I suppose.’

‘What about Thomma? Can you put in a word for him? He seems a nice boy.’

‘I’ll do my best. As for Aziz, he must have had a work permit to come to the school. He said the university in Vermont helped him. He flew from Boston to London last month and he has an EU passport. Hopefully he can transfer to a proper kind of job over here. IT skills get looked on favourably by Immigration.’

Time passed slowly, as it always did during the waiting phase of an operation. At one o’clock Liz was about to suggest they go out and grab a sandwich, when Pearson’s mobile rang. It was the Ops Room at Police HQ. Liz watched as he listened, struggling to keep his voice from rising. Gradually his features settled, his expression hardened, and she saw it was not good news.

‘They did what?’ he said, sounding incredulous. He looked at Liz and shook his head, half in sorrow, half in disbelief. He said more calmly now, ‘I hope you expressed our disappointment.’ The voice at the other end said something and Pearson smiled grimly. ‘Good. That sounds like suitably undiplomatic language. Tell them we want a full report on how they failed to apprehend three important international criminals.’ And he ended the call. He turned to look at Liz. ‘You’re not going to believe this.’

‘I can tell it’s not great.’

‘The Coastguard has been keeping an eye out for our escapees – Border Force have only one vessel on this stretch of coast. They spotted our friends anchored as if they were waiting to meet another ship, off a stretch known as Braddle Beach. They alerted Border Force in Ipswich and they relayed the message to their patrol boat. Then they got confused somehow – or else the boat didn’t hear the message very clearly. They headed straight for a point called Battle Beach – it’s named for the pillboxes they built along its bluff during the war. The problem is that Battle Beach is ten miles south of Great Yarmouth and Braddle Beach is twenty miles north. By the time they discovered their mistake and retraced their steps, Fortunes High was nowhere to be seen.’

‘They could be anywhere by now.’

‘Exactly,’ said Pearson grimly. ‘So far they haven’t done anything one would expect – slow boat, hanging around: you’d almost think they wanted to be caught. But there’s no sign of them now, and they could have easily made it to Holland or Belgium. Our chaps are getting in touch with the Dutch and the Belgians. If they’ve stayed along our coast, we’ll get them, but I can’t believe they’d be that stupid. They’re probably drinking champagne aboard a Russian cruise ship by now.’ He sighed. ‘What a cock-up.’

‘It’s not your fault.’

‘I can’t help but feel responsible. It happened on my turf.’

‘I know, but it’s not your screw-up.’

There was no point in them hanging on any longer in the little Southwold police station. There was nothing more they could do. Assorted social workers and local departmental officials had been dispatched to the farm to look after the welfare of the students and to try to determine their status. It was going to be a difficult task as only Aziz had any documents.

‘What are your plans now?’ asked Pearson.

‘Well, I’ve got to be in the office tomorrow fairly early. I’ll need to sort things out at our end and talk to Six and find out what’s going on in Germany. Could one of your drivers take me down to Ipswich and I’ll catch a train?’

‘Yes, of course. But do you have to get back tonight?’ She looked at him inquiringly. He went on, ‘I have to be in London myself first thing tomorrow – a meeting at the Met. I’m being driven down and could easily take you too. Why don’t you stay here and we could have dinner somewhere and drink to our disappointment that those bastards escaped? I could put you up in my spare room and we’ll drop you off at your flat in the morning.’

Liz hesitated before saying, ‘Thanks. That sounds like an excellent idea. Much better than going back to an empty, foodless flat.’

It seemed to take Pearson a moment to realise she was saying yes, then he beamed. Liz found herself drawn to his mix of professionalism and straightforward charm. He was unlike any man she’d known well before. And certainly not remotely like Martin Seurat.

But there was nothing wrong with that. She would always have her own memories; she didn’t need someone to remind her of them.

They stopped at the police station at Bury St Edmunds so Pearson could catch up with the details of what was going on and Liz could brief Peggy and ask her to arrange a meeting with Geoffrey Fane the following morning.

‘It might be a good idea to invite Miles Brookhaven too,’ Liz added.

They drove to the Crown, an old inn in the village about five miles west of Bury St Edmunds where Pearson lived. They’d agreed on an early supper as neither of them had eaten anything except sandwiches and pizzas for more than twenty-four hours and they were starving. The Chief Constable was clearly a well-known and well-liked customer and the welcome was as warm as the low-beamed room with its log fire burning in the big fireplace. They ate tender slices of pink lamb while talking companionably; it was all so peaceful and relaxing after the frenzied last couple of days that Liz almost fell asleep. Finally Pearson said, ‘Come on. I think we need to get some rest,’ and after friendly goodbyes all round they drove the short distance to Pearson’s house, which Liz was surprised to see was a thatched cottage.

‘Your room’s along here,’ and he led Liz down the cottage’s one corridor and opened a door. ‘Oh no,’ he said, almost reeling back.

‘What’s the matter?’ Liz was peering over his shoulder as he flicked on the light.

‘I asked the cleaner to clean out this room. And it’s not been done.’

Liz saw why he was dismayed. Half the world’s fishing gear seemed to be contained in the little room.

Pearson said, ‘I’m so sorry. Why don’t you relax in the sitting room and I’ll sort it out?’

Liz looked dubiously at the enormous amount of gear – poles and nets and boxes of lures – that lay on the bed, on the floor and perched precariously against the wall. ‘It will take you for ever,’ she said. ‘And where are you going to put it all?’

‘Well…’ Pearson looked embarrassed. ‘You can have my bed, and I’ll sleep on the sofa.’

Liz gave him a long, contemplative look. There was something touching about a chief constable acting so awkwardly.

‘You could,’ she said slowly. ‘You certainly could.’